This morning we leave the railway at Llangollen, and take to posting through the country. We had much the same sort of omnibus which we used in Somersetshire two years ago, in going from Dunster to Lynton. Our party is now larger, but we all mount on the top of the coach, and put the servants inside. Thus we drove today from our starting point to Bala twenty two miles in little more than two hours over a very fine road just moistened by a shower in the night. We followed the pretty valley formed by the river Dee to Corwen the home of the Welsh hero, Owen Glendower. From Corwen, which, like all Welsh towns, disfigures rather than heightens the view we entered upon the higher mountain scenery. Arran, and Cader Idris became visible as we proceeded, besides many other elevations of less note. Positively, they are not of great height—but they are sufficiently so to make very picturesque combinations. We reached Bala in time for luncheon. The place consists of one street of ordinary houses, with a rather old and musty hotel. Afterwards we went out to the lake, a beautiful sheet of water. The day was brilliantly fine—such as we have in America, when the sun gilds every thing it touches, whilst it makes deep and defined shadows over mountain and water. I made up my mind to walk to the upper end, said to be a distance of four miles. It was a beautiful road the whole way, a perfect luxury of a stroll both ways. I desired to walk around the lake, but having no certainly how far the road might diverge, and finding the time falling short, I returned just in season for dinner. Mary seemed for the first time today to be decidedly gaining.88